Read Online Dead Renegade by Victoria Houston - Free Book Online
Authors: Victoria Houston
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best to help you out. But give me a clue, won’t you?” Pete sounded so relaxed and happy that Osborne wondered if he was right to ask questions that could bring back unpleasant memories.
“This is about an incident when you and I were in grade school, Pete. I’ve never forgotten that you were the guy who blew the whistle on that Collins kid. Remember that bully?”
“Never forget him. Wonder whatever happened to that jerk.”
“You were the only one on your floor with the guts to say anything even though a number of the other boys knew he was hurting those kids. Everyone was too scared to say anything. I guess …” Osborne paused, uncertain how to ask the next question.
“My question is—would you mind talking about that, Pete? I would like to know what gave you the confidence to tell Father Kucera what was happening.”
“And why is that, Paul? You have a grandchild who is being bullied?”
“Possibly … maybe worse …”
“I see. Well, if it helps I’m happy to tell you why I did what I did. And you may find it rather ironic that it all started with one of my grandparents—my grandmother …”
Twenty minutes later Osborne had a plan. He called Erin. “Is Mason still up to go fishing?” He knew the answer before he asked, of course, and chuckled at the whoop of joy he heard in the background. “Good, I’ll be there by three-thirty.”
Opening the back of the Subaru, he carefully laid two metal tubes side by side—the beige one held his old Sage fly rod and the forest green tube with the shiny brass cap held the new Winston fly rod that Lew and his daughters had given him for his birthday. He double-checked his fishing duffle to be sure it held a couple extra reels and, finally, he folded his fly fishing vest so that the pockets bulging with boxes of trout flies wouldn’t get crushed by Mike’s car kennel. At the last minute, he threw in an extra fishing hat—the one that was too small for him.
Before leaving the house, he let the dog out of the yard and together they headed for the water: Osborne took the stairs while Mike leaped ahead, dashing onto the dock before coming to a skidding halt at the end. Much as the black lab loved to swim, he refused to dive.
Osborne ambled out over the water to stand beside the dog and speculate. It was a favorite pastime of his, and Mason had asked him once why he spent so much time alone on his dock. “I like to speculate,” he had said and left to her to figure what he meant.
A cerulean sky had cast its spell across the water with only the distant horizon of dark firs to separate the matching blues. The water surface was still. Not a cloud marred the sky, not a sound the air. Not even the hum of a distant outboard motor could be heard. Peace reigned. Osborne raised his face to the sun, speculating.
Summer afternoon in June: life should be perfect. Old bones should not tumble out of rugs; little girls should not be terrified. How would this day end?
He found his favorite perch on the bench anchoring the end of the dock and took the time to say—as was his habit when life pressed hard—a Hail Mary . A short prayer, it had been his favorite since childhood, since those days with the Jesuits: a wistful attempt to ensure he was doing the right thing.
After three Hail Marys, he and the dog sat very still, listening as a trio of breezes came rippling across the water, whispering their secrets to the tall pines guarding the shore.
Secrets, Osborne thought, goddamn secrets. I’ve had it with secrets. He reached to rub the black lab behind his ears then gave him a swift pat, “Okay, guy, gotta go. Wish me luck.”
And Mike leaped up to do as he was asked with a wag of his tail and a wide, toothy smile.
As he drove into town, left hand on the steering wheel, right hand clutching the cell phone, he was able to reach Marlene on the switchboard and ask to be patched through to Lew. It took just a minute to relay the gist of Pete’s story and let her
“This is about an incident when you and I were in grade school, Pete. I’ve never forgotten that you were the guy who blew the whistle on that Collins kid. Remember that bully?”
“Never forget him. Wonder whatever happened to that jerk.”
“You were the only one on your floor with the guts to say anything even though a number of the other boys knew he was hurting those kids. Everyone was too scared to say anything. I guess …” Osborne paused, uncertain how to ask the next question.
“My question is—would you mind talking about that, Pete? I would like to know what gave you the confidence to tell Father Kucera what was happening.”
“And why is that, Paul? You have a grandchild who is being bullied?”
“Possibly … maybe worse …”
“I see. Well, if it helps I’m happy to tell you why I did what I did. And you may find it rather ironic that it all started with one of my grandparents—my grandmother …”
Twenty minutes later Osborne had a plan. He called Erin. “Is Mason still up to go fishing?” He knew the answer before he asked, of course, and chuckled at the whoop of joy he heard in the background. “Good, I’ll be there by three-thirty.”
Opening the back of the Subaru, he carefully laid two metal tubes side by side—the beige one held his old Sage fly rod and the forest green tube with the shiny brass cap held the new Winston fly rod that Lew and his daughters had given him for his birthday. He double-checked his fishing duffle to be sure it held a couple extra reels and, finally, he folded his fly fishing vest so that the pockets bulging with boxes of trout flies wouldn’t get crushed by Mike’s car kennel. At the last minute, he threw in an extra fishing hat—the one that was too small for him.
Before leaving the house, he let the dog out of the yard and together they headed for the water: Osborne took the stairs while Mike leaped ahead, dashing onto the dock before coming to a skidding halt at the end. Much as the black lab loved to swim, he refused to dive.
Osborne ambled out over the water to stand beside the dog and speculate. It was a favorite pastime of his, and Mason had asked him once why he spent so much time alone on his dock. “I like to speculate,” he had said and left to her to figure what he meant.
A cerulean sky had cast its spell across the water with only the distant horizon of dark firs to separate the matching blues. The water surface was still. Not a cloud marred the sky, not a sound the air. Not even the hum of a distant outboard motor could be heard. Peace reigned. Osborne raised his face to the sun, speculating.
Summer afternoon in June: life should be perfect. Old bones should not tumble out of rugs; little girls should not be terrified. How would this day end?
He found his favorite perch on the bench anchoring the end of the dock and took the time to say—as was his habit when life pressed hard—a Hail Mary . A short prayer, it had been his favorite since childhood, since those days with the Jesuits: a wistful attempt to ensure he was doing the right thing.
After three Hail Marys, he and the dog sat very still, listening as a trio of breezes came rippling across the water, whispering their secrets to the tall pines guarding the shore.
Secrets, Osborne thought, goddamn secrets. I’ve had it with secrets. He reached to rub the black lab behind his ears then gave him a swift pat, “Okay, guy, gotta go. Wish me luck.”
And Mike leaped up to do as he was asked with a wag of his tail and a wide, toothy smile.
As he drove into town, left hand on the steering wheel, right hand clutching the cell phone, he was able to reach Marlene on the switchboard and ask to be patched through to Lew. It took just a minute to relay the gist of Pete’s story and let her
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